


Wrap your Arms around my Trembling Soul

by FrostedFlame (PinkOrchid)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depressed John, Jealous Sherlock, M/M, Mentions of past suicidal thoughts, friends being there for you in unusual ways and beyond the call of duty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:12:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4221291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkOrchid/pseuds/FrostedFlame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory saved Sherlock a long time ago. Now it's John's turn. Sherlock isn't impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Subterfuge and Intrigue at 221B

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set after season 3, in an AU where Mary and the baby (which they discovered wasn't John's to begin with) have been dead for over six months and John is back living with Sherlock in Baker Street. He has been withdrawn since moving back and, Sherlock thinks, quite probably depressed too. 
> 
> Sherlock isn't very good with this kind of thing but he does his best. Greg is a good friend, he does his best too. 
> 
> Sherlock doesn't do jealousy. But if he did..
> 
>  
> 
> Note: don't own, don't profit, don't sue..

Sherlock was a master of the art of subterfuge. As he sat in his usual armchair, it looked as if he was simply ensconced deep in his mind palace, eyes vacant and unfocused, expression blank and long fingers steepled against his lips. Nobody watching would ever discern that he was, in fact, surreptitiously observing his best friend and flat-mate out of the corner of his eye. Something. Was. Up. 

Sherlock isn't quite sure what it was that first tipped him off. But for some time now, he had the strangest sense that _something_ was not-quite-right with John. Strange, how he couldn't quite put his finger on what, exactly was going on. But something definitely was. Normally all it would take would be one good hard look at him and he would deduce it right away. John was hardly an enigma. And yet. And yet.. No, he just couldn't place it. It was driving him mad. How could he fail to deduce good honest John, open-book John, brilliantly ordinary John? Sherlock didn't like mysteries - at least ones he couldn't solve. He had already devoted inordinate amounts of time to this particular puzzle, to no avail. Maddening!

John had moved back to Baker Street in his own quiet, unassuming way, arriving with his duffel bag and suitcase shortly after the funerals. Suspecting that the good doctor would not want to discuss it over much (he generally never did, it was always 'all fine', after all), Sherlock had said nothing, just patted his arm in what he hoped was a vaguely comforting kind of way, and set about making tea. Sherlock had been delighted, beyond relieved to have John back where he, in Sherlock's view, belonged. But since then, John had been - well, quiet he supposed. Sherlock wasn't good with understanding people's emotions, but surely almost seven months later, John should be starting to get a little bit, well, happier. More John-like. But he hadn't, not really. He put up a good front, but - at least to Sherlock, and possibly to his other friends, whether practised in the art of observation or not - John wasn't doing particularly well. 

Sherlock was not used to worrying in this way about someone else, caring being a defect and all that. He wasn't at all sure what to do about it. Best ignore it really. Wait it out. Nonetheless, he had done his best, in his own way. He had provided ample distraction in the form of adrenaline-filled chases and occasionally some hand-to-hand combat thrown in for good measure. He had taken to praising John for even the least helpful of his observations. He had been even more insulting and obnoxious than usual in company, in the hopes of inciting a reaction from John, his compass of all not-good in the world. Sherlock was genuinely startled by the complete absence of the irate glares he had anticipated, and was most definitely mourning the loss of what he called the 'Captain-John-Voice' that would normally appear at the most insensitive of his jibes. _Took all the fun out of it, really_ , he thought with a sigh. Hell, he had even begun taking on cases rated a lowly 5 or 6 just to be keeping them busy, out there, the two of them against the world, the way John liked it. Didn't he? Sherlock's stomach gave a lurch as he hoped that, of all the changes that had befallen them lately, this would not be one. No, the source of John's unhappiness must lie elsewhere. And Sherlock was going to deduce it and fix it. He wouldn't admit to any other possible outcome.   

The detective had made huge efforts at home as well, doing his utmost to be an exemplary house-mate, even if Some People didn't quite believe he was capable of putting somebody else first for a change. He had made tea on more than one occasion, had kept his experiments unobtrusive and lacking in body parts (well, for the most part) and had pretended not to notice John staring into space or sighing despondently when he thought nobody was listening. Sherlock was, however, always listening, at least with the John-part of his brain, the part he assigned wholly to his blogger. He would never tell John, but the smaller man did not just have one room in Sherlock's mind palace, he occupied an entire wing. Sherlock had had to delete several literary works of minor importance just to accommodate the latest series of melancholy looks and sighs he was observing, the precise slope of the shoulders on particularly difficult days seeming to correlate with the degree of pain reflected in those fascinatingly changeable eyes.

But in the past few weeks, Sherlock had noticed a change. John still seemed silently depressed, but had begun acting differently and Sherlock was sure something strange was Going On. The doctor maintained a death-grip on his phone at all times. He would disappear for no reason, or no good reason. He was late returning from shifts at the surgery and had taken to texting in the loo. If he didn't know better, Sherlock would have said 'dating', but John was never so furtive about his dating behaviours. So - dating someone he shouldn't be? Or something else? He wasn't going out of his way to look good, no cologne, date shoes remained firmly in their allotted place. He didn't come back with long hair on his jumper or perfume clinging to his clothes, and didn't have that indefinable glow that he got when he had just met a 'special someone', either. And he certainly wasn't having sex (Sherlock would know). Probably not dating, then. But what? Sherlock was keeping a close watch from behind his veneer of mind-palace activities. He would find out - sooner or later, John would slip. After all - Sherlock Holmes was on the case. There was nothing he could not figure out. But damn, it was taking far too long already. He might have to resort to extreme measures soon! Maybe even an experiment, those were always fun.

Sherlock dismissed the thought and returned to his silent observation. Right now, John was in his usual chair, holding his usual mug (double-handed grip, probably seeking comfort from the warmth), but not-drinking. That too had become somewhat-usual lately. He had been sitting there for 30 minutes already, his tea must be going cold. His eyes were unfocused. He didn't have a mind palace, of course, but his mind was obviously somewhere not-here. His face, unaware of being observed, had fallen into one of his sad looks. So far.. nothing terribly unusual for this new-John, the post-Mary (or possibly post-Reichenbach, Sherlock couldn't be sure) John. But so far from _his_ John, his solid, loyal, twinkling John, that it troubled Sherlock more than he could say. He didn't like that. Didn't like it at all. 

There - John's phone pinged and Sherlock was sure he caught a brief flash of - was it guilt or shame? Possibly both, but definitely something furtive - as John put down his mug and picked up his phone. Quickly he typed what Sherlock deduced could only be the two-letter response 'ok' and hit 'send', before he went right back to his original pose. Exactly 17 minutes later, John stood up and went to put on his jacket. Sherlock turned his gaze towards the smaller man in what he hoped was a nonchalant way. "Going out?" he asked in his deep, rumbling baritone. "Just fetching some take-out," John replied, without any inflexion at all. "Thought some Thai might be nice." Sherlock frowned. "I'm sure they deliver, John" he muttered. "Yeah, but going to stretch my legs a bit, get some air. I can't sit for hours on end like you can, Sherlock." It was on the tip of the detective's tongue to offer to go-with, but John immediately pre-empted that with "Be good to have some alone time actually, been a busy day". And with that, off he went. 

Sherlock frowned. He hesitated for all of two seconds before he swept off the sofa, swirled on his trusty Belstaff and silently trailed after his friend. 

 


	2. What Sherlock Saw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock isn't sure what he is seeing. He finds that disconcerting.
> 
>  
> 
> (note POV jumps from one set of *** to the next. Hope it's not too confusing. )

_***_

_Look normal, look normal, for God's sake look normal_ was the mantra John Watson muttered to himself, barely keeping a grip on his very last nerve while exiting the apartment.  _Don't hurry. If you hurry it's game over,_ he thought despairingly. Descending the stairs at an excruciatingly sedate pace was almost more than he could bear. It was never easy to pull one over on the great Sherlock Holmes. But perhaps he had, just this once. God knows, he needed it to work this time.  _Sherlock could never know!_

_***_

It had always been insultingly easy for Sherlock to follow John without being noticed. He had done so on several occasions in the past - much to John's dismay when he found out after the fact. But the detective always had very good case-related reasons for doing so, the logic of which he had expounded at great length to his long-suffering blogger once the cases were done. This time - well Sherlock wouldn't worry about that now. Morality was John's area after all. And well, this was a case - of sorts. John may not have hired him, or even asked him to help, but it was glaringly obvious to Sherlock that his friend needed watching. The fact that Sherlock was also impelled to do this for reasons entirely of his own - well, that was irrelevant. Sherlock did not like not-knowing - especially when it came to John. It was simply a basic safety precaution, really.

It went without saying that John did not guess he was being tailed this time, either. Sherlock could be an imposing and impressive presence, impossible to ignore. But he was more than capable of melting into the background when situation required. It was all down to posture, body language, moving his transport as efficiently as if he were dancing or fighting, forcing it to his will. The tall man flitted like an errant shadow, along the street outside their flat and down the side-street leading to MyThai's, their usual Asian take-out. So far, the route matched John's story. But make no mistake, story it was, Sherlock was sure of it. John was an extremely poor liar. And he had given away 3 of his 5 biggest tells in under 2 minutes of his barely-looking-at-his-flat-mate exchange.

_***_

John walked with an air of nonchalance he was far from feeling, the vague hope that he had really escaped detection by the infuriating genius slowly blossoming in his chest. Greg had said that he should confide in Sherlock about his - ahh -  _problem_. And Greg was right that it was good to talk. For sure, without Greg to talk to these past 3 years, he doubted he would have survived. Such a good friend, Greg had been.  _Still is_ , John corrected himself. John was never sure how DI Lestrade had always managed to turn up exactly when John was at the lowest ebb, just at the point when he would start to think about taking out his Sig Sauer this one last time. Perhaps Mycroft was watching out for him, from some twisted sense of compassion or loyalty, and tipped the DI off. Mycroft himself never visited if he could help it, especially during the dark times when John thought Sherlock was dead and buried. Though God knows, it would not have been any consolation to John if he had. Or perhaps Greg just really did have a sixth-sense when it came to 'danger nights' for the devastated doctor, same as he had always seemed to display for the great detective himself, back in the days before the Incident on the Roof. Yes, that particular event was always spoken in Capitals in John's head, as if it were a momentous happening on par with the Big Bang or Genesis of Man. He supposed that was alright, it was a defining moment, after all. It marked the beginning of the end of everything that mattered, he could see that now. 

But he couldn't talk to Sherlock about this. He really couldn't. Not when Sherlock himself was, essentially, the cause. John was no fool. He knew he wasn't coping particularly well since the whole Sherlock-dead-and-then-not-dead-and-then-shot-by-his-lying-wife-who-was-now-also-dead-along-with-his-not-baby thing. There wasn't even a word for the depth and complexity of the feelings that ravaged the army doctor. It was worse than Afghanistan, worse than witnessing the war claim the lives of good men he could not save, worse than the loneliness of blood-red sands under a desert moon. This time, he had lost so much more than that. He hadn't been prepared for any of it and he was left - bereft? Reeling? Without hope. Nothing made sense any more. And he was just so lonely. So horribly lonely. Achingly alone. And one thing he knew for sure, his definitely male and married-to-his-work flatmate, for once, really couldn't help. How could he? Even John had no name for what he wanted from the bloody genius detective called Sherlock Holmes. 

So, John coped with these things alone, without involving Sherlock. He found other ways to ease the bad days, where nothing felt right under his skin. And lately he seemed to have found at least one thing that helped, thanks to Gregory's advice. John was reasonably sure Sherlock remained blissfully unaware of his 'side-project' - simply because if his flatmate had in fact figured out what was going on, he would have had no qualms about deducing it (most likely out loud and in front of an audience). And Sherlock knowing... well, that would just about  _annihilate_ John, he would simply stop breathing and expire on the spot from shame.  He felt his cheeks flush hot even at the thought that  _people might find out._ This abhorrent but entirely necessary level of subterfuge towards his best friend left John feeling vaguely guilty. The behaviour he was attempting to hide left him - yes, he could admit it, if only to himself - ashamed. Even worse, he felt guilty about feeling guilty - his sense of unease about what was happening wasn't at all fair to the person he was, ahh,  _doing it_ with. And after all they were not doing anything particularly wrong. Consenting adults and all that. But guilty he was, albeit despising his weakness in feeling it. Not to mention nervous. Tying to best Sherlock like that - he was really playing with fire. Tricking Sherlock - it wasn't a very nice feeling.  _But needs must_ , he sighed to himself as he hurried along.  _Needs must._

_***_

Sherlock watched as John walked into the restaurant. He himself hovered at the corner farther along, not wanting to get too close. After several minutes, John came right back out again - so - he must have placed the order and left while it was being prepared. Sherlock did some rapid-fire calculations. Today was Tuesday, it was still fairly early in the evening, there would be few if any competing orders. Add to this that the weekday chef was at least 10% faster than the one who ran the Saturday shift and yes, Sherlock deduced that John could not be going far. He would return for the food within 15 minutes of leaving the restaurant. But where was he going? 

Sherlock's eyes followed John as he slipped around the corner leading to the alleyway beside MyThai. He noticed that the doctor was moving with more purpose and clarity than he had in months. Interesting! Sherlock's pulse sped up. He knew there was nothing in the alley apart from bins - but yes, searching his mind-palace for schematics, he remembered that there was another exit from the end of the alley onto the street parallel to the one he was on. Sherlock hastened his pace, wouldn't do to lose John now! He rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks. There was John - half hidden by the solid bulk of a dumpster, yes, but he'd recognise that jacket, the back of that dusky head, anywhere. Sherlock plastered himself back against the wall, eyes glued to what he could see of John. What on _earth_ was he doing? The angle was all wrong to see properly. Sherlock held back a hiss of frustration. 

_***_

John smiled softly and let out a contented sort of sigh.  _This is good_ , he thought.  _Definitely worth the risk._ He paused a second, as if waiting for something. He moved forward and was aware of the tension beginning to drain from his shoulders, leaving his body warm and pliant in its wake.

_***_

Sherlock remained glued to the wall at the mouth of the alleyway, making himself all-but disappear. The narrow space was dim, as the sun rarely cleared the tall buildings on either side. It wasn't the most fragrant of places to be, but the smell did not bother him at all. He had definitely experienced worse. He watched the angle of John's back suddenly change as the other man leaned forward, arms outstretched.  _Maybe to hold himself up against the wall_ , Sherlock thought.  _Was he ill? Was he taking a piss? But there was a loo in the restaurant, he could have used that - why choose to relieve himself in public instead?_   Sherlock considered whether his blogger was in need of assistance, should Sherlock offer to help? He wondered how this could possibly be related to John's painfully obvious attempt to pull the wool over his eyes earlier on?

Just as Sherlock was about to step forward and ask if John was indisposed, he caught a flash of movement. To his great surprise, he saw a pair of arms - decidedly not-John's - reach up and slip themselves around his blogger's back. Male arms. Generic jacket sleeves. Large hands. Sherlock gasped. There was somebody else hidden in the lee of the dumpster! Somebody Sherlock couldn't see. A Male Somebody. Damnit he couldn't  _see!_  John leaned in some more.  _What? What could that mean? Was his flatmate going to have sexual relations in an alley? In February? And with a man? Surely not!_ Sherlock couldn't fathom it. He felt slightly queasy. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that John did not sleep with men. He also knew John had not been having sex - at least not in the six months since he had moved back in (Sherlock would _know_ ). And the frequency of John's self-care in the shower had dropped to such low levels that Sherlock had actually begun to be concerned (but could not bring it up with John, since the doctor got inordinately annoyed whenever Sherlock commented on what John called 'private matters, Sherlock!').

Or was he wrong? God forbid, was his skill in observation starting to slip? But no, staring at the scene in front of him allayed that fear. Several minutes in, and there was no evidence of fumbling at belt level, no frotting or humping or other movements of John's nether regions indicating activity of a sexual nature. John was standing completely still. And the Arms stayed where they were, so his companion, whomever he was, was not dropping down to perform fellatio, either. Not that John would engage in that kind of thing in public- would he? What on earth was going on?

Sherlock watched, his eyes huge, his heart  hammering as painfully in his chest as if he had run all the way from Baker Street. After exactly 3 minutes and 12 seconds, John slowly pushed himself back into an upright position, more of his svelte frame coming back into view. He stood for several moments, as if looking at the other person, before smiling and Sherlock could see his lips form two words. Hard to read lips accurately from the side but it looked like he was saying "Thank you". Wait, what? But no time to dally - John was starting to turn to walk back the way he came. Sherlock had to scuttle in a most undignified fashion to the opposite corner, barely hiding himself before John emerged from the alley, looking - yes definitely a little happier, a touch more relaxed. What? Sherlock had seen, but he really did not understand. This was new. 

And Sherlock did not  _like_ it. Not one little bit!

 

 


	3. Gregory Gets his Sensitive On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock notices how worried Greg is about sad!John

Save for the muted rustling of John's newspaper, silence had reigned uninterrupted in 221B for the past 73 minutes. Ten minutes more and John thought it might just be safe to spare a glance over at his flatmate, who was sprawled in a knot of limbs and silk on the sofa. The detective had not moved since John came home, having simply grunted his refusal to share John's take-out. The man was obviously deep within his mind palace. He probably didn't even register John was there. John yawned, placed his paper on the coffee table and slowly made his way to bed. From his reclining position on the sofa, Sherlock continued to pretend not to look, but as soon as John's back was turned, Sherlock's eyes narrowed and then followed his best and only friend as he exited the room. Only when he heard John's bed make the usual creak as John lay down did Sherlock allow himself to return to his little puzzle, cataloguing and sorting the data from the day's adventures and searching for meaning in the most unlikely clues. 

***

At exactly 3.12am Sherlock Holmes hastily exited his mind palace and shot bolt upright on the sofa in the darkened sitting room.  _That's it!_ he thought.  _Snogging!_ _That's what John was doing, he must have been snogging that man in the alley. There simply was no other explanation._ Sherlock felt pleased with himself for figuring it out. The self-satisfied glow lasted for all of 10 seconds. But then another thought hit.  _Why on earth would John be snogging another man? John, NotGay John. Snogging. And going to great lengths to make sure I didn't know. What could it mean?_ Sherlock felt his stomach lurch alarmingly. He really must get that checked out, it was happening far too often lately, indeed. 

Sherlock flicked his robe back around himself with a sharp flourish and retreated into sleep.  _Need more data,_ was his final lucid thought, before the darkness fell. 

***

Eight days later saw the Detective and his Doctor on a case. Not a very exciting one, but still - better than nothing. John seemed especially quiet, he had barely said a word all morning, and there was a tension behind his eyes that even Sherlock found unsettling. Sherlock put these thoughts aside to concentrate on the task at hand, bending over the corpse to check the strange orange fibres clinging to the neck. He barely registered Lestrade pulling John around a corner of the warehouse, out of sight. By the time he thought to query it, the pair were back. Odd. But no time to think about it now.

However as the weeks wore on Sherlock began to notice - how could it have taken this long to see - that the DI was intercepting his friend on a fairly regular basis. Last week, they had disappeared off while Sherlock was doing paperwork in Lestrade's office - and hadn't that been tedious! Now, today, they were huddled in Lestrade's office, while Sherlock watched a police surveillance video on the screen outside. The two men were talking earnestly, Sherlock could see clearly through the glass pane in the door. Whatever they were discussing looked to be of a serious nature, neither man was smiling. The DI was standing awfully close to John, his hand on John's shoulder as he peered into the smaller man's eyes. Suddenly, Lestrade caught Sherlock's enquiring gaze and the two men broke apart, not fast enough to make it suspicious, but it was obvious that Sherlock's attention had brought their conversation to a close. Odd. Just one more odd thing in a month of very-odd-things-indeed. 

A week later they were on another case, but this time Sherlock couldn't help but notice that his friend was decidedly - unexcited - about the summons. Even Sherlock had found it hard to muster enthusiasm for the (three day old, office worker, addicted to on-line gambling) corpse in the face of John's evident disinterest. Sherlock's "Look John, what do you make of these strange marks?" gained only a brief glance and a non-committal hum from where the doctor was hovering next to DI Lestrade. 

Sherlock, a little put out at the lack of response, had glanced up at John. But he had to struggle to keep his face impassive as he managed to intercept the tail end of a glance Lestrade had just sent in John's direction - a glance that sent chills down his spine. The DI was looking at John with  _that look_ , the one Sherlock remembered all too well from his own troubled past. The set of Lestrade's face, the concern in his kind eyes, it was exactly how the DI had looked at him, back in the dark days when drugs had ruled, and almost ruined, his life.  _Gregory was worried about John, then. That was - disconcerting. What did the DI know that he didn't? If other people were noticing... it must be serious._

During a lull, John excused himself and left to go to the toilet and Sherlock noticed the DI's eyes follow John's progress across the room. When John left, the DI turned towards him. 

"Sherlock," he asked tentatively, "is John ok?"

"What do you mean?" Of course, Sherlock was pretty sure he knew, but - well, better see what Lestrade thought about it before admitting anything. 

Greg sighed. "Well, he has been a bit... quiet lately. You  _have_  noticed, right?" 

Sherlock sighed too. "I'm sure it's nothing Graham," he said. 

Greg didn't say anything else, just shrugged in his thoughtful way, his eyes still on the door John had exited through. Sherlock resolved to watch John more closely in future, and had turned his attention back to the task in hand. But the unsettled feeling had stayed with him the rest of the day, regardless.


	4. Musical Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gregory has a puzzling request. John is more devious than expected.

Sherlock was very good at observation. He could spot patterns and meaning in seemingly random events. It was what made him so very good at what he does, after all. When John went to the clinic the next day, Sherlock realised something he should have spotted sooner, something that had been buzzing insistently at the back of his brain like a tiny, annoying fly. Tuesdays. John seemed a bit happy on Tuesdays. Well - not happy exactly, but less-unhappy, at least. Why Tuesdays? He worked late on Tuesdays... Or did he? Sherlock began to wonder. He steepled his fingers pensively. Should he ask Mycroft to track John's phone? Indeed - he may already be doing so, Sherlock was under no illusions about just how intrusive his brother could be. Could he request access to any such hypothetical tracking data? Say, spanning the previous six weeks? Oh... tempting! But then - Mycroft would _know_.

Sighing, Sherlock gave up that idea - at least for now. It wouldn't do to have the British Government knowing what he was up to, investigating his own flatmate. His only friend. Mycroft would love that, wouldn't he. And he'd probably inform John of it for spite. That would be just like him.

Sherlock filed the Tuesday snippet away in his mental filing system. It would all lead to a bigger picture, he was sure. He just needed more pieces of the puzzle to fall into place, that was all.

***

Sherlock noticed that as the week wore on, John's silences began to stretch. He made several well-placed comments that in happier times would have incited John Watson to something like rage. Or at very least irritation. This time, there was nothing. Most annoying. John had become blank to him. Sherlock couldn't read him. It was like the man was disappearing in front of his eyes. 

The following Tuesday he resorted to tailing John again, from work this time. He took a spot opposite the clinic, sheltered behind an overgrown laurel hedge. He made sure to be there a good ten minutes before John's usual 'early' finish time of 5 O'Clock. And yes - sure enough, John emerged right on cue. Early. Most definitely Not-Late, even though it was, indeed, a Tuesday. So he was going somewhere else after work. Sly dog! This kind of alibi took planning, foresight. _How very underhand of you, Doctor Watson_ , he thought to himself, not without a small inner frisson and a slight measure of admiration on the side. 

Sherlock followed John down the street and watched him enter a nondescript coffee shop. He waited from a vantage point outside, watching through the window while John got coffee and - sat. Simply sat, staring into his cup. Nobody else approached him. He seemed to be - waiting. He refilled his coffee once, drank it, then after an hour had passed, simply gathered his things and left. Sherlock followed him again, but the destination was no real surprise. He followed his blogger all the way to 221B, making it home at roughly the usual time for a late-shift-Tuesday. It made no sense. Why would John say he had a late shift if he had none, only to spend that time drinking coffee alone? The whole thing was starting to upset the consulting detective greatly. This made no sense.

When the detective walked into the flat, having spent half an hour wandering aimlessly, so as not to arrive too soon after his flatmate, he noticed right away that John was neither calm nor contented. It was Tuesday. But John was not in his usual Tuesday mood. What could that mean? Was he stood up? Did he realise he was being followed and refrain from meeting up after all? Did he know Sherlock was there? But no - he would have confronted Sherlock by now, if that were the case. It was all so very strange. Sherlock gave him the detective's  best once-over, attempting to deduce something, anything, from the man. Hard shift at work, two flu jabs and a case of the clap, no puking babies or distraught single women today. Some anxiety badly hidden by a rhythmic clenching of the left fist, coffee stain on the cuff, frothy stuff, so therefore a coffee shop. Drank it cold. But - of course, Sherlock already knew that. Beyond this - nothing save the faintest hint of shame, of dislike of such obvious dissemination. Most definitely no snogging today. Most assuredly not in love. 

Sherlock mused over the day's happenings as the two men ordered in some dinner and resolutely didn't-talk about anything that actually mattered. Typical evening in, then. Except it wasn't - not for Tuesdays. Sherlock sighed.

Later that evening, Sherlock put a slide under his microscope in the kitchen and regarded John discretely from under his lashes while seeming preoccupied with the equipment instead. John had been acting squirrelly all evening, jumpy and unsettled, eyes heavy with something troubled, snapping a 'fine' at Sherlock when he asked if the good Doctor was ok. For the past 20 minutes, John had been ostensibly working on his blog, seated in his armchair, laptop on his knee, but Sherlock could tell he was not blogging - the rhythm was off. His typing was sporadic, coming in waves surrounded by troughs, rather than the steady drip-drip-drip of his usual two fingered attempts. No - it sounded more like the to-and-fro of a conversation. John's face was a picture of emotion as he typed and read, typed and read again. Right now, it was a look of trepidation, like he wanted to ask something but couldn't. His fingers typed and deleted something several times. Trying to phrase something he found difficult, then.

Sherlock longed to get his hands on the laptop, itched to hold it in his own hands, to find out who was keeping John's attention for so long. Could it be a dating site? An anonymous sex chat room? John didn't seem to be especially aroused right now. Or anything so much as vaguely irritated - and that, mostly with himself. Finally John seemed to give up, shoulders slumping. After a few hasty words of typing - probably saying goodbye - he snapped the lid shut and shot out a quick 'goodnight' in Sherlock's direction, to which Sherlock simply grunted, as was his usual response.

Unfortunately, John took his laptop to bed with him, which caused Sherlock to hiss internally in frustration. Evidently his investigation of John's laptop, fuelled solely by friendly concern of course, would have to wait. Oh well, perhaps an experiment wasn't the worst idea after all - a real one this time, not pretend. Or he might risk sneaking up to John's room after he was asleep. Except he could still hear John moving around, pacing perhaps. And either muttering to himself or else speaking to someone on the phone. Hmm, thought Sherlock as he returned his attention to the slide. Better not.

Half an hour later, Sherlock's phone rang. He almost didn't answer it - John wasn't there to get it from his shirt pocket, after all. He did so enjoy that little ritual. But he wasn't so far into his experiment (which was half-hearted at best in any case, considering the amount of thinking power he was still devoting to the John-Problem) that he totally resented the intrusion. He glanced at the screen. Lestrade. What could he want? He wasn't even in the city tonight.

\- "Sherlock Holmes."

\- "Oh, hi Sherlock." - then silence - an awkward one. That was odd. Sherlock resisted the urge to wait him out in favour of finding out what the DI wanted so he could get him off the phone. Sherlock preferred text for a reason. This kind of thing was even worse than having a face to face conversation.

\- "Did you have a case for me?" he asked.

\- "Emm. No, not exactly. I'm not in London this week, on this case down South. Won't be back until the weekend."

\- "Yes, I was aware of that. In that case, perhaps you could enlighten me. What precisely did you need, Detective Inspector?"

\- "Ahh, it's a bit - well - I had a favour to ask. But I need you to not get all Sherlock-y about it. I mean, can you do something for me, no questions asked?" _Now that was intriguing. Who could let something that juicy pass?_

\- "No questions asked, Lestrade? That's a bit - unusual, isn't it?" Sherlock almost purred.

\- "Look," Lestrade sounded frustrated, almost angry "will you help me or not, Sherlock?"

\- "Of course - I do owe you, as you well know. You helped me without question in the past, more than once. I could hardly refuse you. Is it dangerous? Illegal? Hmm?" He could barely keep the hope out of his voice at the thought.

\- "No, no - nothing like that. Just - embarrassing. And." - here Lestrade paused, as if considering something, weighing his words carefully. This got more interesting by the second. Sherlock was fascinated now. "- could you - you have to promise me you won't mention this to John, alright?" _John? What had this to do with John?_

\- "Sherlock? Are you listening? I mean - please just don't tell him I rang or that I asked you this. Alright? It's important. I wouldn't ask you if it weren't."

\- "But why can't I tell John? What has this to do with him?" 

\- "Nothing really, Sherlock. Just - you know what he's like. He'll rib me over it for weeks and then I'll find it up on his blog for everyone's bloody amusement. Bloke can't ruddy help himself!" the DI said, defensively. 

\- "Alright Graham," Sherlock sighed. "Having suffered through the humiliation of the 'solar system' debacle, believe it or not I do know what you mean. Not a word. I promise."

\- "It's Gregory! But yeah, ok. Then if you wouldn't mind - could you go get your violin please?" Gregory almost sounded sheepish. 

\- "My violin? What has that to do with anything?"

\- "Please - for me? I'd be very grateful. It's - it's important Sherlock.Trust me on this."

Sherlock wedged the phone under his shoulder, and went and got the padded case from its place on the shelf, opened it and drew out his beloved violin.

\- "Ok. I have it out. What next?"

\- "Well, genius that you are, I would have thought you could guess that one, Sherlock!" Gregory chuckled. "Play. Play something for me."

\- "What?!" It was hard to genuinely surprise the great Sherlock Holmes but, yes, for sure, this time, DI Lestrade had done it.

\- "Just put the phone on the coffee table, and play something. Make it something soft, not too sad, slow."

\- "Are you - are you asking me to play you a lullaby, Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Sherlock's voice was dripping acid now, he was sure this had to be a prank of some sort. And yet - Gregory went on, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to ask of him.

\- "Yes, yes if you put it like that. Please Sherlock? I know it's an odd request. But - you've no idea how helpful it will be. I will owe you. More than you know."

\- "As you wish, Detective. I don't claim to understand your odd request, but I am quite capable of complying. I'm putting the phone down now, I assume you'll stay on the line?"

\- "Yes. And Sherlock? Ahh - thank you. I mean it. Thanks."

Without further ado, Sherlock placed the phone on the table, put the violin under his chin, and began to play. He chose a sweet little aria and began to improvise softly around it once he'd played it through the first time. He played on impulse, losing himself in the sound, the vibration of the music, the melody. The sound welled up, soft and enticing, comforting - as beautiful and unique as Sherlock was, himself. He had no idea how long he played for. When he finally stopped, he realised two things. First, the pacing from John's room had stopped. Second, the DI had apparently already hung up some time ago. Strange, he thought, but then the whole thing had been most unusual.

That night, as he sank into his pristine bed, the sweetly comforting melody followed him into his dreams.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets his hands on John's hardware (well, his laptop, at least)

As confusing as he found the previous night's conversation, when John came down for breakfast the next day (looking a little better, he noted, thankfully) Sherlock kept his word to the DI and refrained from even hinting at the late night call and its strikingly unusual request.

While John got ready for work, Sherlock flounced about in his bedroom, taking his time dressing. As soon as the Doctor had left the flat, Sherlock was at the window, watching his retreating form from behind the dusty lace curtain. As his flatmate faded from view, he let out a sigh of relief and went hunting for that blasted laptop, there was no way John had taken it with him, his bag had been too small to hold it. He let out a cry of delight when he spotted it on the blogger's nightstand, and automatically noticed the position so that he could put it back later without arousing suspicion.

The password was easy of course, it always was. Dear John. He did try so very hard. Too bad Sherlock was feeling especially clever today. He started by checking John's browsing history (even the deleted parts) and found nothing out of the ordinary. Really, John's taste in porn was verging on the pedestrian. Such a shame.

Next he opened John's chat program - also password protected, not that it was much more than an irritation to Sherlock, who had deduced it within 4 tries. Oh John!

The contents of said chat window were very interesting. The most recent conversation was from the previous evening - he'd been right! John had been messaging - between user Stryder-968 and MedicMan - well it was obvious who the Medic Man was. But the other one - Stryder-968? Please!? Who calls themselves Stryder?! Was it a man or a woman, hard to tell - most likely male, based on the lack of fluffiness and the obvious reference to a character from that Tolkien epic. And a man who fancied himself a bit of a hero, too. Epic adventurer. Hidden greatness. That kind of thing. (Just because John thought he knew nothing about popular culture in movie terms did not mean he hadn't read the book version, albeit a long time ago). 

Sherlock settled in to read the chat history, cup of tea in hand.

19:09: MedicMan: Hey....

19:11: MedicMan: You there?

19:14: MedicMan: Guess not.. oh well. Never mind.

...

**19:39: Stryder-968: Wait - yeah I'm here now. You still there? John?**

**19:40 Stryder-968: John??....**

...

19:43: MedicMan: Yeah - Still here. Didn't think you were gonna answer. Wasn't watching the window.

19:45: Stryder-968: No I'm here mate. You should have texted. I would've nipped out to phone you. Was just grabbing dinner with the lads, we're about done here actually - another day should wrap this up.

1948: MedicMan: Oh. good.

...

**19:55: Stryder-968: John? You there? Did you fancy a chat?**

19:56: MedicMan: Yeah. Still here.

**19:57: Stryder-968: What's up, my friend? You ok? Sound a bit flat..**

19:58: MedicMan: Fine. All Fine. Just - wishing you didn't have to be away.

**19:59: Stryder-968: That your way of saying you miss me, is it? ;)**

20:00: MedicMan: No. Well. A little. Could do with a little TLC, to be honest. 

**20:01: Stryder-968: Hey - hey! what is it? What's up? Seriously. I'm listening. All ears...**

...

**20:04: Stryder-968: Will I ring you?**

**20:05: Stryder-968: Sod this I'm going to ring you.**

20:05: MedicMan: No - no please don't! I can't talk right now.

**20:06: Stryder-968: Is your mad genius flatmate there?**

20:06: MedicMan: Yeah. But I don't feel like talking anyway. Just leave it, yeah? Ring you tomorrow when I am on my break. Promise.

**20:07: Stryder-968: Oh no you don't John Watson! If you're feeling not-ok you have to tell me. That's the deal. Remember?**

...

**20:10; Stryder-968: John? Answer me - or God help me I will ring you. Or Sherlock, I do actually have his number. You know I do. I will do it too if you don't ruddy answer me.**

20:11: MedicMan: I said I'm FINE.

**20:13: Stryder-968: So why don't I believe you?**

20:15: MedicMan: I just - feeling a bit low I suppose. I missed seeing you today. I went and sat in a cafe on my own and pretended to drink two cups of coffee and wished you weren't so far away.

20:17: MedicMan: God, I hate being this way.

**20:18: Stryder-968: You sound a bit down. What way is that then?**

20:20: MedicMan: I guess you could say that. Jesus, are you not sick of all this already? I know I am.

20:21: MedicMan: God. I just hate this. I hate being so dependent and, you know, _clingy_ like a bloody child. I'm such a mess. Why do you even bother?

**20:23: Stryder-968: Now stop it right there. You KNOW why. You know it. And you're not a mess.**

**20:23: Stryder-968: Look - Sherlock's still there isn't he?**

20:24: MedicMan: Yeah. Why?

**20:26: Stryder-968: So - why don't you talk to him? I'm sure he'd listen. He's a friend isn't he? If you explained how you're feeling .. I'm sure he wouldn't mind. You can talk to him, you know that right? If you need to I mean. He would help if you asked. I'm sure of it. I wish I were there, but I'm not. But he is. I know how proud you are John, but - you're not as alone as you feel sometimes, you know?**

20:29: MedicMan: No, no. Don't. You _know_ it's not like that. I can't. I just couldn't. Doesn't matter.

20:30: MedicMan: Besides he's busy with one of his experiments. He won't surface for days, most likely. And anyway. It's not like that. We don't talk about that kind of thing. It's not who we are. Besides. I don't want him to see me like this. It's bad enough being this way. I can't. I just - it's not an option, alright? 

20:32: MedicMan: Look - stop worrying, please! I'll be fine. I'm ok. Really. I should go. You go back and hang with the lads, ok?

**20:34: Stryder-968: NO! Don't go. Come on - I'm listening. I can't be there, I mean, look at me, I'm stuck here. But - I can listen. Tell me, whatever it is, I'm here. Bad day?**

20:34 MedicMan: Yeah.

...

**20:40: Stryder-968: So... wanna talk about it?**

20:43: MedicMan: Not really

20:44: MedicMan: I just.. I dunno.

**20:46: Stryder-968: Just what mate?**

20:47: MedicMan: Just feeling a bit sad I suppose. No big deal.

20:47: MedicMan: Look, I'm just going to go to bed I think. Been a long day. Really tired. 

**20:48: Stryder-968: John?**

**20:49: Stryder-968: John - I'll see you soon. Alright? You sure I can't ring you? I'd like to hear your voice.**

**20:50: Stryder-968: You have to know how much I care, right. You have to see that I worry about you, John. You've not been yourself.**

20:52: MedicMan: I know. But I'm alright. It's not - it's not a 'danger night' or anything. Really. Just felt a bit lonely, that's all. Missing you, I guess.

20:53: MedicMan: Don't go on about that though - I'll deny it if you do.

**20:55: Stryder-968: Wouldn't dream of it. But - you know we'll both know you said it!!! Have it on screen shot just in case you 'delete' it.... accidentally on purpose, like.**

...

**20:59: Stryder-968: Look - why don't you go up to your room, I'll ring you, we can chat a bit. He'll never hear what we're saying. I need this. I'm too far away to be there in the way you need me to. I need to hear your voice, to know you are ok, not just I'm-John-Watson-and-everything-is-fine ok.**

**20:57: Stryder-968: Ok?**

...

**21:01: Stryder-968: John?**

**21:01: Stryder-968: I can see you typing, John. Either this is a very long message or you keep deleting and re-typing. Well either that or you've gone and sat on the keyboard on me!**

21:03: MedicMan: Ok. Alright. Look give me 10 mins to get ready for bed. I'll txt when safe to ring. 

21:04: MedicMan: And.. you know. Thanks and that. You know I mean it. Don't you? 

**21:05: Stryder-968: I know. It's fine. All fine. Ring you in 10.**

 

21:07: Stryder-968 has left the chat.

 

***

 Sherlock checked for older messages on the machine but found nothing else at all. That was suspicious, suggesting John had done a reasonably thorough job of deleting anything that might be incriminating. Searches exhausted - well, without calling Mycroft and abusing the might of the not-government British Empire - Sherlock felt he had found everything of any use to his 'investigation'. He was sure to place the laptop back in  _exactly_ the same position as he found it.

_What does all that mean?_ He asked himself. Evidently John was both chatting on-line _to_ and meeting _with_ someone (not to mention texting and calling) - someone who knew of his living arrangements and of his flatmates name and number. The fact that Mycroft hadn't yet intervened suggested it was someone innocuous, someone considered non-threatening to Sherlock's continued security. He itched to ask his brother. But no, that wouldn't do at all.  

Sherlock mentally searched his mind palace for any reference to outside friendships, ones courted in the previous couple of months. Nothing obvious jumped out.

Sherlock couldn't tell you why the thought of John being  _close_  to someone else, a presumably male someone else, should irritate him so. 

But it did. 

This was _way_ worse than being bored!

 


	6. Bulls and Horns and China Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to talk about feelings and stuff.

Sherlock was pacing the kitchen as he waited for John, a blur of edgy motion and flailing limbs. He scowled at the door through which his flatmate would soon appear, itching for a cigarette. Today was not a good day. Mind you, last night had been considerably worse - sleep had been impossible and he had spent so long in his Mind Palace that he was left confused and disconnected from reality as dawn began to break, even though he was firmly back in the physical realm by then.

Sherlock had come up with a surprisingly sparse list of deductions overnight (stored mentally of course, wouldn't do to have this found by John). 

Sherlock's deductions so far begin and end with the simple and irrefutable truth that John was unhappy, possibly depressed. As a doctor, John most likely would have already recognized the symptoms - and yet seemed to have sought no professional help that Sherlock could discern. John's Blog was not being updated. There were no pills that Sherlock could find secreted in various 'hiding places' around the flat ( _they're not really hiding places if I know about them, John_ ). Ella-the-therapist was distinctly absent from any topic of conversation.

Even more telling, John was quite evidently pretending he was not unhappy or possibly depressed - was he in denial? No: the content of the messages found on his laptop indicated that John was self-aware and acknowledged his condition. But based on his rejection of the idea of talking about the issue with 'his mad flatmate', one would have to assume that John did not wish to discuss it - _or perhaps just did not wish to discuss it with me_. _Why not_? Hypothesis: said flatmate's typical lack of empathy in past interactions may be a factor here.

Going further then, given that John continued to stay at Baker Street, the source of his despair was likely not down to his living arrangements. No, logically, one must assume that the recent death of wife and (not-his) child might be the root cause of said depression. Loss of potential of a 'normal' life/wife/family. _Sadly, John has always desired normality._  

It was vital to properly consider the timing of events. The state of depression seems to have lasted already quite some time - was steadily getting worse but had begun improving for short bursts of time more recently - improvement noticed only over the past six weeks. Something had been happening in past six weeks that was not happening before. 

Furthermore, John has been having clandestine meetings, possible snogging, or at minimum some form of physical contact. _He is **hiding** these meetings from me. Is he ashamed? _The meetings - or the unusual and evasive behaviours that signal the meetings - seemed to have been happening for the past six weeks. There is a very high probability of correlation. 

Quite clearly, the person John has been meeting is a male person. This is unexpected. John has been texting and ringing and messaging (presumably the same) male-person. However - no - certainly John was not having sex. Definitely not. _John is Not-Gay. Also see previous point. Not. Having. Sex._ Ah, but John has been discussing his  _feelings_  with said male-person. John does not talk about his feelings with  _anyone_. Not even his therapist (especially not his therapist). He was not currently seeing a therapist, anyway. And John had been hiding his phone, wiping his message history more thoroughly than he had ever bothered to clear his browser cache so as to dissemble about the porn.  _So what does that say?_

_This male-person apparently knows who I am and has my number,_ thought Sherlock, finally.  _Does person know me? Do I know him? Arms and sleeve cuffs did not seem familiar. Probably can discount the likelihood of any nefarious purpose in relation to myself by going via John..._

His hurtling train of logic lead Sherlock to one conclusion: John was evidently ashamed of his depression ( _boring, this obsession with what other people think_ ). John was also ashamed of the 'help' he is receiving from this 'friend' - on-line and presumably in person. _A_ _romantic attachment? seems likely, even though there were no terms of endearment or sexual connotations or propositions during entire conversation last night_. _Well then. Whatever he is doing, it makes John feel guilty. But whatever he is doing, it is... helping._

Sherlock decides that he can either let this play out and wait-and-see (unsatisfactory, possibly reckless) or bite the bullet and TalkToJohn (most definitely reckless, perhaps even dangerous). 

Sherlock decides - much as the thought dismays him - that he needs to talk to John. 

***

"John?" 

The doctor's eyes flick up from his newspaper, the familiar semi-dread of 'what now?' warring with the equally familiar excitement of 'what's next?'

Sherlock was standing in the doorway, clad in faded pyjamas and his best blue robe,  _looking_ at him.  _Hmm... unusual, most times he wants something he barely acknowledges I'm here. No, scrap that, I'm quite sure he often asks me for things even when I'm not here at all._ Such focused attention from a normally distracted Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with. It set John's teeth on edge. 

"Yes, Sherlock?", he asked. 

 "Right. So. Ahhh." Sherlock cleared his throat and folded his pale fingers together behind his back, chin lifting up. _Why was this so hard? It's just John, for crying out loud!_ "It occurs to me, John," he said, finally, with a studied air of indifference, "that we have known each for rather other a long time."

"Yes. That is true, Sherlock." John replied, shooting his flatmate a rather nervous glance. _God knows what Sherlock is likely to come out with!_

"Well. That is - What I wanted to say is-" Sherlock hesitated, eyes narrowing.

"Yes, go on, Sherlock, what is it?" John's voice turned warm and gentle, exuding a familiar 'Doctor Watson' comforting there-there-ness that made Sherlock feel instantly patronised.  _Well, sometimes I quite like it, actually. But not today!_

Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing (rather alluringly) and started again, irritation slipping under the words as they rolled on his tongue, and giving them a sneaky _push._ "I mean to say - if anything were wrong, if you needed to - _talk_? - well." _Good God, man, what are you doing? Do use your words, Sherlock!_

 John sighed, a sound Sherlock could happily do without hearing any time in the next decade if truth be told. The doctor's voice lost its comforting edge and suddenly, suddenly, was all hard and slick as steel, a hidden menace lurking just beyond the drawn-out vowels. "Sherlock, where is this coming from?"

A warning sat inside the phrase, Sherlock heard it clear as a bell. He ignored it anyway. Could be dangerous. Right, so. Sherlock had never been a coward. Except now - except when it came to John. Or rather - John's  _feelings_. Sherlock felt vaguely ill, unable to process. Ah. _Sentiment_. Well too late to pull back now!  "You cannot deny, John, that you have been, ahh, less than yourself lately. It certainly has not escaped  _my_ notice. I am - after everything, John, you must know - I am your  _friend_. Simply put, I would do whatever I could to lessen whatever burden is upon you."

John swallowed several times, his look radiating nothing so much as abject horror. "No, No. I am fine. It's  _all_ fine, Sherlock." John stood up and fell over his left foot, so hasty was the retreat he attempted to beat. By the time Sherlock had recovered from John's hand grasping his knee on the way down, flailing dramatically, his friend was gone. 

_So much for talking, then_ , thought Sherlock, all forlorn. 


	7. What the Sofa Saw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock sees more than he bargained for

John tried to resist. He really did. But sometimes - some days it was just too much. Too empty. Sherlock was gone. On a case. Wouldn't be back. The flat was silent and cold, like nobody lived there. Like it was after The Fall. And John felt - he felt empty and alone, storm clouds gathering on the horizon. 

With a shaking hand he rang the number of the one person who seemed to always understand. 

"Greg? Yeah it's John. Yeah - erm, are you free right now? It's just - yeah - you know how it gets." John took a breath. "Look, Greg, Sherlock is away today. We won't be disturbed if you wanted to, you know, call over here. Just for a change. No, I'll order in later. See you then." 

John let out a sigh, relieved that for tonight, at least, he didn't have to be alone. Thank _God_  for Greg. And for clients with missing wives to keep consulting geniuses occupied, and for unusually empty flats so that for once he didn't have to, ahh, indulge his  _habit_  in the shadow of a dumpster or in the back seat of Lestrade's less than luxurious car. 

***

The sofa at 221b had seen many things. It had born silent witness to explosions and gunshots, experiments and danger nights. It was conversant in feelings expressed in the medium of tea. It coped with jaded consulting detectives draping themselves artistically above its cushions as easily as its soft curves accommodated the compact solidity of a soldier returned from war. It had observed vicious arguments where more things were thrown than tantrums, and it had glimpsed the edges of hidden and fondly exasperated stares. But this was a different kind of thing altogether. This was new. 

Sherlock climbed the stairs, deep in thought, avoiding the creaking board half way up, on autopilot, and for once, not stomping as he walked. He could hear the sounds of the tv coming from the flat above and deduced that John must be watching one of those horrid chat shows, since he wasn't expecting Sherlock home until the following morning. Thankfully, the client he had been en route to see had rung to cancel just as he was boarding the train, thereby saving Sherlock the dubious pleasures of a case that on reflection seemed hardly a three. Turned out the man's silly wife hadn't disappeared after all, she was just a closet alcoholic (well Sherlock could have told her husband that from the start) who had gone on a bender of epic proportions. Apparently it had taken several days in a new lover's bed to sober up enough to make her way home. How mundane.  _Boring!_

Sherlock was glad to be home, glad to be back to the flat that felt like home and to not-boring John, as well as the waiting sofa and wonderful John's perfectly perfect tea. He swung the door open - not quite eagerly, that would be undignified, but with a bit of a statement in the swing. Nice to make an entrance, after all. He and his Belstaff twirled their way into the sitting room. And stopped dead.

A look of horror washed over Sherlock's face at the sight before him. He blinked twice, yet the vision remained. There, right there, was his not-boring flatmate lounging in his vest on their well-worn sofa - wrapped in another man's arms. He blinked again, mouth falling open in disbelief. John,  _his John_  was wrapped in none other than - he barely believed the evidence of his own eyes - _DI_   _Lestrade's_  strong, manly - inappropriately bare - hairy and above all  _not_ - _female_  arms! 

Sherlock's eyes roved the room, taking in all the evidence of a romantic liaison - the empty take-out packaging, the wine bottle, the low lighting, the tv on but ignored in the background. And the arms, the arms holding and caressing and - and  _holding_ and  _touching_ and all that  _skin_ and - Sherlock swallowed the rising lump in his throat. Suddenly he couldn't bear to input any more data. System Overload.  _  
_

John had caught the movement of the door in his peripheral vision as Sherlock strode in. For one horrible second he hovered in shocked inaction, before he jumped in alarm, but it was too late, Sherlock had already seen them. Oh no! What would he think! He opened and closed his mouth a few times trying to find the words to explain - to say that it was not what Sherlock thought, not that - but no, Sherlock wasn't even listening. He had retreated to some internal place, beyond reach of John's stuttering apologies for now. Shutters firmly down, face closed, Sherlock spun on his heel and left, slamming his bedroom door behind him. 

***

John hovered for a long time outside Sherlock's room, willing his flatmate to come out and _talk to him, damnit!_  But Sherlock remained maddeningly locked away from him. Gregory was long gone - he'd offered to stay, of course, to help explain their 'arrangement' to the daft git. He of all people knew how unprepared Sherlock would be for this, how little experience he had to draw on in order to make sense of this whole affair. Experience told him that this would have to be handled delicately in order to not set off an avalanche of self-destruction. He was well aware of just how fragile the great detective could be, like a child almost, when it came to his own emotions. And he knew that what Sherlock had witnessed must have shaken him deeply. There was always the chance he just simply would not understand. And then there was John, who in his own way was fragile too, John who (Gregory was no fool, he knew the signs) was head over heels in love with his emotionally constipated flatmate, but who just wouldn't admit it. And who spent ten god-awful minutes just staring at Greg with this horrified expression on his face, like a kid whose mother just caught him frantically jerking off. Seriously, he was fond of the man, but the doctor was so far in denial, it just wasn't funny. So wounded. So unprepared for the fallout that was about to hit. So yes - of course the DI had offered to stay, to smooth things over. He cared about both these idiots, after all. 

But John had assured him he was fine, that he wanted to talk to Sherlock alone, that Sherlock would respond better if it were just him. That he would find a way to break through the silence and make it right again. Greg wanted to believe him. But as he walked down the stairs of 221b, he couldn't help the sneaking suspicion that not even the very determined soldier he left behind might find a way to make it right this time. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As I write more of this story it occurs to me that, while this was written as a fairly light-hearted piece of fluff, it could in some ways be taken to trivialise the subject matter of depression. Just wanted to say that this is by no means the intention. I have friends who have suffered from serious episodes of depression and have had experience of long-term low-grade persistent depression myself, so I am well aware that it's in no way fun and can't be cured as simply as may seem to be suggested here. I know how depression isolates you, you feel like you can't connect, so it seems unlikely someone who was feeling this way would find comfort in the way depicted here. That being said, the story was not conceived to be especially true-to-life.. Plus, I do genuinely believe in the healing power of human touch and am also a proponent of 'whatever works'. But I think it's important to emphasise that I do not mean to make fun of the condition or of people who share their lives with the angry black dog of depression. If the subject matter triggers, please take care.


End file.
